Pembridge turned back to them and scrutinised the paper again, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. He held the page up to the light then nodded.
'Yes, that would be my guess,' he decided.
'Who printed it?' asked Christopher.
'Miles Henshaw.'
'Henshaw?'
'He's your man, Mr Redmayne. I'll wager money on it.'
'Where will we find him?'
'In Fleet Lane. But have a care when you speak to him.'
'Why?'
'Miles Henshaw is a big man,' said Pembridge. 'With a choleric disposition.'
Left alone in his house, Henry Redmayne grew fearful. The attack on his brother had robbed him of any pretensions to bravery. Certain that he would be the next victim, he ordered his servants to let nobody into the building except Christopher. Wine was his one consolation and he drank it in copious amounts, hoping to subdue his apprehensions. Yet the more he drank, the more menaced he felt. His case, he told himself, was far worse than those of his friends. Peter Wickens had only been asked for five hundred guineas. Sir Marcus Kemp had already paid twice that amount and faced a second demand but neither man's life was in danger. Henry quivered. Why had he been singled out? It was unnerving. He began to wish that he had never confided in his brother at all. Had he appeased the blackmailer when the first demand came, all might now be well. Henry would have come through the crisis and Christopher would have known nothing about it.
It never occurred to him to lay any blame on himself. Self- examination was foreign to his character. When his own actions landed him in trouble, he always sought to place the responsibility on someone else. As he swallowed another mouthful of wine, he decided that the real culprit was the woman with whom he had enjoyed a surreptitious romance. Lady Ulvercombe had been a passionate, if fleeting, lover and Henry had allowed himself to make commitments to her that flew in the face of discretion. Instead of ruing his own folly, he blamed her need for reassurance. Having extracted the fateful letter from him, she promised that she would destroy it before her husband returned to the house. Lady Ulvercombe had broken that promise and the consequences could be disastrous. Henry felt such a sharp pain in his stomach that he almost doubled up. It was as if the vengeful sword of her jealous husband were already penetrating his flesh.
Circling the room, he was sufficiently desperate to offer up a prayer for his own salvation. It was no act of humble supplication. In return for divine intervention, he did not offer to renounce his wickedness henceforth. If God would not help him, he would turn aside from religion altogether. Faced with extortion himself, he was sending a blackmail demand to the Almighty. A heavenly response, it seemed was instantaneous. No sooner had the prayer ended than the doorbell rang. His hopes soared. Had Christopher returned to say that the blackmailer was now in custody? Had the doughty constable arrested the man who attacked his brother? Were his troubles at last over? Sensing release, Henry let out a cry of elation and vowed to celebrate that night in the haunts he had so cruelly been forced to neglect.
When a servant entered with a letter, Henry snatched it from him and sent the man out. He tore the letter open. A glance at the handwriting was enough to fracture his new-found confidence. He scrunched up the paper and emitted a howl of agony.
'Christopher!' he yelled. 'For God's sake, help me!'
As the two men approached the printer's shop in Fleet Lane, they could hear a voice raised in anger. Anticipating trouble, Jonathan Bale straightened his shoulders and led the way into the premises. In a room at the back, Miles Henshaw was admonishing a wayward apprentice. Judging by the boy's pleas for mercy, the printer was reinforcing his words with blows. Jonathan banged the counter to attract attention.
'Mr Henshaw!' he called.
The shouting stopped and the boy's ordeal was temporarily over. Composing his features into the flabby smile he reserved for customers, Henshaw came into the front of the shop. He was a tall, big-boned, corpulent man in his fifties with tiny eyes glinting either side of a hooked nose. When he saw Christopher's facial injuries, he blinked in surprise. Sobbing was heard from the back room. Henshaw gave an explanatory chuckle.
'The lad must learn the hard way,' he said, rubbing his hands together. 'I was an apprentice for eight years and a blow from my master taught me quicker than anything else.' He broadened his smile. 'What can I do for you, gentlemen? If you wish to have something printed, you have come to the right place.'
'We want to discuss your work, Mr Henshaw,' said Christopher.
'Has someone recommended me to you, sir?'
'Not exactly.'
Christopher performed the introductions then took out the page from the diary. Handing it over to Henshaw, he studied the man's reactions. The printer's jaw tightened visibly and his smile congealed. He glared at Christopher.
'Why have you brought this to me?' he said.
'Because we believe that it is your handiwork.'
'There's some mistake. This is not mine.'
'Do you not use that typeface, Mr Henshaw?'
'From time to time,' the printer conceded.
'Then rack your memory,' said Christopher. 'Try to recall when you used it for this particular commission. It's very important.'
Henshaw sniffed. 'I'm sorry,' he said tossing the page on to the counter. 'I've never seen this before. Nor would I care to, sir. It's not the kind of thing a respectable shop like mine would be interested in touching.'
'How do you know? You did not read it through.'
'I saw enough.'
'Let me speak to your apprentice,' said Christopher.
'Why?'
'I fancy that he may be more alert than his master. He may recollect setting the type for this particular commission. Call the lad through, Mr Henshaw.'
'No, sir.'
'What harm can it do?'
Henshaw was belligerent. 'My apprentice has work to do and so do I. If you are not here to do business, I bid you farewell.' He grabbed the page from the counter and thrust it at Christopher. 'Take this out of my shop.'
'Not until you tell us what we came to find out,' said Jonathan, taking the page from him. 'You recognised this work as soon as you saw it. I dare say that you have printed others from the same source.'
'Go your ways,' snarled Henshaw.
'All in good time.'
'I cannot help you.'
'You mean that you will not,' said Jonathan levelly. 'At the moment, that is.'
'Obviously, you require a little persuasion,' said Christopher easily. 'I'm sure that you are familiar with the name of Elijah Pembridge.'
'I know Pembridge and all his pernicious tribe,' sneered Henshaw. 'Booksellers are the bane of my life. They outnumber us completely and enforce terms that take away any profit we might enjoy. The Stationers' Company will be the ruin of us.'
'We did not come here to listen to your woes,' said Jonathan bluntly.
'Then take yourselves off.'
'You have not heard us out yet,' resumed Christopher. 'Mr Pembridge is a friend of mine. When it comes to printing, I respect his judgement. According to him, that page is your work, Mr Henshaw. I'd take his word against yours.'
'So would I,' added Jonathan.
'Pembridge is wrong,' insisted Henshaw.
'Is he?' said Christopher. 'Supposing that Mr Bale and I were to show this to every other printer in the city. What would happen if every one of them denied any knowledge of it? The trail would lead us straight back to you, Mr Henshaw. Why not save us a great deal of time?'